Amniota
by ForgottenButton
Summary: Young naturalist Doc Cunningham makes new friends, runs for his life, loses his research grant, accidentally alters the course of natural evolution, and basically fails at life in general. Then things start to get interesting. Probably slash later.
1. Chapter 1

This is my humble attempt at creating a TMNT fic from an outside perspective, featuring a central OC that won't completely bore the reader. It remains to be seen if I am successful. I have always enjoyed when new characters discover the turtles, and that is half of my inspiration-- the other half can be blamed on the fact I've read a lot of Richard Fortey lately, and who knew trilobites could be so interesting?

The original character featured here is a nervous young naturalist named Allen 'Doc' Cunningham, and the story entails how his (potentially catastrophic) line of research brings him into contact with a world he does not expect. In the course of his attempts to keep from failing at life in general, he tussles with unsavory characters, accidentally defies nature, witnesses how terrible a miracle can be, and finds salvation where he least suspected, residing in secret beneath his feet. It will also feature Donatello heavily, though this may not be obvious at first.

A general warning to those who have not yet abandoned me-- this story will probably eventually turn to slash, or at least will hint strongly in that direction. However, I promise you this: it will be as much a surprise to Doc as anyone.

Of course, I cannot claim any ownership of the characters, not even of Doc, as he was inspired by some people I have known, and others I have read about.

Please read and review.


	2. Chapter 2

Doc Cunningham considered himself a rational person-- his brother described him as 'boring'-- and so it was, with some surprise, that he found himself in the current situation, the details of which he could scarcely bear to consider. He stood in the bathroom of his apartment staring at himself in the mirror.

"You," he addressed his reflection, which looked glumly back at him through eyes sunken by exhaustion, "are a failure." It was a difficult fact to digest, considering that, only a few months earlier, he had stood in that very same bathroom and announced to that very same reflection that all their plans were coming to fruition.

It was an adventuresome endeavor, to say the least, and he had realized the risks from the beginning-- or at least, he thought he had realized them. But all these facts remained irrelevant. The truth of the matter was that after finally getting the funding to continue his research, after years of effort and the potential of finally completing his postdoctoral studies, he had reached an unrecoverable setback.

Doc turned his head and glanced sidelong at his temples. They had begun to boast a more-than-modest dusting of gray hair between the bits of mousy brown, despite the fact he had just recently crossed the threshold of his twenty-ninth year. He sighed and retreated from the bathroom.

If he had discovered that he had been mistaken, that an outcome was different to the one he expected-- these would have been acceptable. Science, after all, moved forward by the grace of accident and surprise. But this was not the case, and no amount of soul-searching above a calcium-stained sink could change that.

What had happened was this: he had discovered his work was guilty of that worst possible outcome of scientific pursuit -- not being wrong, not being usurped, but being completely and utterly _irrelevant. _It was as though some force beyond his reasoning had sounded a death knell inside his ribcage; his whole soul tremored from the force of it.

He was the only one on his team who knew-- he had yet to tell his funders-- and he dreaded seeing them again. He had always been a horrible liar, and he knew-- one look at his face and they'd know-- they'd all know-- that he had lost his scientific reputation before even gaining one.

And to think how absurd it was, that it had started with something so innocent as a single email from a curious admirer.

_Doctor Cunningham_, it said, and then it flattered him for a few lines before settling in, _I have followed your current line of research for a few months now, and while your ideas have merit, I think that by considering the possibility of purposeful genetic manipulation in the course of evolutionary extremism of that type, you are jumping to a conclusion that might exclude any alternative cause that may have led to a more gradual development -- such advancements in the reptilian form do not typically arise so suddenly and without outward stimulus._

The sender had not signed the email, but proceeded to politely detail the discrepancies of his work, with cited sources and figures elaborating on the point which struck more and more home with every word-- that he had misjudged the situation from the get-go and had concluded nothing of value in the intervening period.

It had, in short, been the shock equivalent to that of a freight train.

He had not yet attempted to respond to whomever had sent the email; he wondered if he even could. He wondered if it was possible to continue working as though he had never received it. But how long could he manage to hold up the illusion? Maybe long enough to pull forward some other theory, to piece together some facts of interest from the data he had managed to collect, to gain _something_ from the time and effort that had been put in.

He decided to call in sick to work.


End file.
